by Mark Timlin
At the back of the store was an open door marked STAFF ONLY, and we passed through into the warehouse area. It was busy in there too. The place was full of metal shelving right up to the ceiling packed with everything a Saturday shopper would need from kitchen roll to baked beans. People were scurrying around pulling stuff off the shelves and into trolleys, and a couple of forklift trucks were running about squeaking warnings to the pedestrians. Once again everyone was wearing a corporate shirt. There were choruses of Good mornings which John replied to with a wave. The back of the warehouse was open to another parking area that was full of suppliers trucks and smaller vans once again marked COFFEY SHOPS. There was another door further down with a sign reading CANTEEN, and I could smell bacon cooking. Obviously breakfast was served. Good staff relations, I thought. He took my arm and propelled me through the workers, up a flight of stairs to a glass fronted office that sat above the warehouse with a view of the place from all four directions. Inside was a young woman at a desk complete with three telephones, a computer and a printer. Further back was a larger desk, clear except for piles of paper invoices. Behind it sat the man John wanted me to meet.
Now if John was black, his partner was as pale as a ghost with wispy blond hair going thin on his nut. John looked at the girl and said. ‘Julie, give us a moment please.’
She smiled, nodded, stood up and left the room. Before she went, she asked, ‘Coffee?’
John shook his head. ‘Maybe later,’ he said.
She smiled again, and left, closing the door behind her.
John introduced me. ‘Tony, this is Nick Sharman. He’s the investigator I told you about. Nick, my partner Tony Harvey.’
He looked at me like he might examine something Schmoo the cat had dragged in from a garbage tip, and made no move to get up and shake hands. ‘Really,’ he said with a sneer. ‘I told you I didn’t think this was a good idea.’
So much for me, I thought. ‘It’s my decision,’ said John, and I knew then who was the more equal of partners, although Harvey might own fifty per cent.
‘Your funeral,’ he said.
‘John,’ I said, and I could tell Harvey didn’t like me being on first name terms, ‘if this is awkward…’
‘It’s my decision, I said,’ said John, and this time there was steel in his voice. ‘And it stands. Come on Nick, I’ll show you round downstairs.’
With that, and a dirty look from Harvey to me, we left. Maybe I’d get a coffee in the canteen.
27
Shop Around – The Miracles
John led me through the warehouse, pointing out matters of interest, then back to the main shop, and through a corridor to what he told me was the security office. Inside, in front of a bank of a dozen monitors, was another security guy. ‘Good morning, Chas,’ said John. ‘Meet Nick, he’s giving our security system the once-over.’
Chas didn’t seem miffed by me intruding on his bailiwick, instead turned, offered his hand, and said, ‘Welcome aboard. Want a cuppa?’
‘Sure,’ I replied.
‘Help yourself,’ and he pointed to a table covered with mugs, sugar, and a vacuum flask.
‘I’ll leave you two to chat,’ said John. ‘Show Nick the ropes.’
‘Will do,’ said Chas.
‘Just one thing,’ said John, and he went to a big metal cupboard. He opened the door and pulled out a plastic wrapped sweat shirt. ‘Extra large should do,’ he said and gave it to me. ‘Just to make you feel at home.’ Then he reached into his pocket and brought out a card. ‘My private number,’ he said. ‘Any time.’ And with that, he wished us both another good morning, and left.
I made myself a cuppa and looked over Chas’s shoulder at the monitors. ‘Four outside, one in the warehouse, and seven in the shop,’ he explained. ‘And you can zero in on any one.’ He touched a button, and the twelve screens became one. Then a fader to zoom in. ‘See.’
I saw.
‘Trouble is, it would take twelve days solid to see everything in real time.’ Which could be a problem, I thought. But all seemed serene, and after a few minutes I drank up and went for a wander. A few minutes later my mobile rang. It was John. ‘Sorry to abandon you,’ he said. ‘I had to have a chat with Tony.’
I thought that that probably didn’t end well. ‘No problem,’ I said.
‘Perhaps you could go to the warehouse tomorrow first thing and just melt in?’
‘That works for me.’
‘Do you need a lift?’
‘No, I’ll make my own way back. Give me time to think.’
‘Fine. Check in with me as and when.’
‘Will do, John. Good to meet you.’
‘The feeling’s mutual. I think we’ll get along.’
With him yes, with his partner no way. ‘Hope so.’ And with that we made our farewells and finished the call.
28
Too High For The Supermarket – The Uninvited
I rolled down to Brixton bright and early the next morning for my first full day on the job. I parked up in a space marked ‘STAFF’ and all dressed up in my COFFEY SHOPS hooded sweat shirt and reported to Harvey in the warehouse. He made a big deal of looking at his watch. Obviously, he thought nine ack emma was no time to clock in. But if he thought I was turning up at six thirty he had another thought coming. ‘It’s not here that stuff’s going walkabout,’ he said. ‘Nothing gets past me. Everything’s military style, triple checked. If you want to catch thieves, better look inside.’ He motioned at the front of the building.
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘That’s where I’ll be if you need me.’
His look said hell would freeze over first. ’By the way,’ he said, as I left, ‘John let the cat out of the bag yesterday, telling Chas who you were. And the staff aren’t happy having a stranger checking on them.’
That was putting it mildly. The workers were as close mouthed as the Cosa Nostra. To say I got a cold reception was nothing but the truth. By lunchtime, I felt like something found floating in a toilet bowl that just wouldn’t flush. Even when I went for a cup of coffee, around eleven, I found myself the only one sitting at a table for four.
And that’s how it went for the next couple of days. I’ll be honest, I’d never felt more hopeless. Now, I can find a missing person, collect a debt, serve a writ, and check up on the faithfulness of a husband or wife, but finding out who nicked a pound of pork and onion bangers was beyond me.
What pissed me off most was the fact that, on the Wednesday morning, when I went by my office, there was a cheque for fifteen hundred smackers from John Coffey’s personal bank account waiting for me on the welcome mat. At least I had the good grace not to cash it. I might be a lot of things, but a fraud I ain’t.
So it was with a heavy heart, and an uncashed cheque in pocket, I bearded the man himself in his Streatham den on the Thursday morning of that week.
29
Grits Ain’t Groceries – Little Milton
He sat me down opposite his desk, and I said, ‘John, this isn’t working.’
‘How so?’
‘I’m getting no help from your staff. They don’t trust me. Neither does your partner. He didn’t want me around from the get-go. And in his shoes, neither would I. It’s not good for worker/management relations.’
‘You must’ve had tougher assignments.’
‘Sure. But normally a few days’ research, or a week sitting in my car, pissing in a bottle, or even a few sore heads, does the trick. None of those works here.’
‘I see.’
I could see he was disappointed in me, and that hurt. Don’t ask me why, it was just that I liked the bloke.
I took out the cheque. ‘Thanks for this,’ I said, ‘but I can’t accept it. Can we tear it up, and call it quits?’
‘If that’s how you want it.’
‘No, it’s not.
I hate being beaten. Especially in the case of the purloined potato chips, as Holmes might have called it. Hardly my finest hour.’
‘It’s up to you.’
Suddenly, I had a thought. ‘John. Do you by any chance have a job for a nice middle aged lady whom no one would suspect was working undercover?’
He thought for a moment. ‘I might. Can she work a rotisserie?’
‘I’m sure this particular lady can work anything.’
‘Well, my girl who cooks the chickens is off sick. Could she fill in?’
‘Well, I haven’t actually asked her, but I’m sure she’d be game. It’s smack dab by the front door if I remember right.’
‘You do.’
‘Perfect to keep watch on anything flying out.’ I put the cheque back in my pocket. ‘I’ll hold on to this, if that’s OK.’
He nodded.
‘Right. I’ll shoot off and give her a tug and let you know what’s what by close of play.’
‘Good. If she accepts the job, tell her to report to the floor manager.’ He wrote a name on a Post-it note. ‘Tell her I authorised the hire. I often do.’
‘Great. And John…’
‘Yes.’
‘Not a word about who she is.’
He made a zip-like movement over his mouth. ‘Trust me.’ And I did.
30
Do The Funky Chicken – Rufus Thomas
I turned up at Madge’s uninvited that afternoon with a bottle of something decent that didn’t come from Mehmet’s corner shop, and a picnic basket from a posh deli that had recently opened in Dulwich Village that I’d read about in the Sunday Times colour supplement. It cost me dear, but I didn’t care. Cast your bread upon the waters was my motto that day.
‘Nick,’ she said when she answered the door. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
‘Maybe you’d better hear what I’ve got to say before you say that.’
‘Sounds ominous.’
‘Tea and sandwiches,’ I said, handing her the basket.
We went inside, and she plonked the basket on the table and opened it. ‘What have we here?’ she said, opening the first carefully-wrapped parcel.
‘Smoked salmon, duck pate, Brie and cranberry, shrimp with mayonnaise, cream scones and jam. Just like my mother didn’t use to make.’
‘My, my, what did I do to deserve this?’
‘I hope it’s what you’re going to do.’
‘Are you propositioning me?’
‘You could say that.’
‘Then I’ll go and put the kettle on.’
Over our tea and sandwiches, I told Madge my problem. ‘Can you work a rotisserie?’ I asked when I’d finished.
‘Of course. It’s just a chicken roaster.’
‘If you say so.’
‘And I’m to look out for bad guys.’
‘Just look, don’t touch. Leave that to me.’
‘A proper Hetty Wainthropp,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Elderly female detective. Heard of her?’
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘She’s on television.’
I shook my head again. ‘Must be my night for choir practice. Anyway, I thought Miss Marple was your favourite.’
‘Hetty’s more down to earth.’
‘Then I must try and catch the repeats. You start tomorrow at nine. I’ll pick you up at quarter to. No mention of me, though. You report to…’ I checked the piece of paper John had given me. ‘Mavis Hampton, and I hope that’s not rhyming slang.’
‘Save it for choir practice,’ she said.
‘Now about payment.’
She gave me one of her old fashioned looks. ‘Don’t be silly. This is pro bono,’ she said.
‘Does that mean gratis?’ Another look.
‘How about lunch at the Ritz?’
‘You must be getting well paid.’
‘Rate for the job. How about it?’
‘Only if we get, how do you say it? A result.’
I had to laugh. ‘Even if we don’t.’
‘You’re the boss, boss.’
‘And never forget it. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight forty five, and drop you off, then collect you again at five fifteen. No public transport for the staff of Sharman investigations.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
And then we opened the bottle, and spent a most convivial evening together.
31
Back At The Chicken Shack – Jimmy Smith
As promised I picked her up at eight forty five, and let her out in a side street at the back of the supermarket. No one saw us. I made sure of that. ‘I’ll be here at quarter past five,’ I said. ‘Make sure no one sees you with me.’
‘Aye aye, captain.’
I spent the day just hanging out at home. Playing old vinyl, drinking tea, and watching daytime TV.
I was bang on time at the pick-up spot and Madge arrived ten minutes later wearing, you guessed it, a COFFEY SHOPS sweatshirt. ‘Looking groovy,’ I said when she dropped into the passenger seat.
‘Not my choice of apparel,’ she replied. ‘But needs must…’
‘How did it go?’
‘Dozens of birds consigned to their maker. Hot and sweaty. Not my choice of a career move either. I ate vegetarian for lunch. I felt guilty about the poor creatures.’
‘Not that. I meant any signs of the bad guys?’
‘Maybe. Give me some more time.’
‘Not even a hint?’
‘Not yet. I don’t want to rush my fences.’
‘OK, Hetty. Fancy some supper?’
‘A lovely idea. Just as long as it isn’t chicken.’
‘Trust me.’
32
Experiment In Terror – Kai Winding
After a spaghetti dinner in our local Italian, I dropped Madge off at home. I grilled her slightly less than the courgette, tomato, cheese and garlic starter, but she kept closed lips except to eat and drink. ‘Sinks ships,’ was all she said.
The next morning I picked her up again and took her to Brixton. ‘Keep your mobile on,’ she said, as she left the car.
She called me about one. I was sitting in my office, listening to Kai Winding’s Suspense Themes CD I’d picked up cheap. Good stuff.
‘Got them,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Come to the shop and you’ll find out. Better bring John Coffey if you can.’
‘I’m on my way.’
I phoned John’s office and told him the news. ‘I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes,’ he said.
I drove down to Brixton, and we both arrived at the same time and parked up next to each other. ‘What do you know?’ he asked.
‘As much as you,’ I replied. ‘It’s all down to Madge. I’ll call her.’ I did just that, and she said, ‘Where are you?’
‘In the car park.’
‘Is Mr Coffey with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then wait there. Don’t come in yet. I’ll just lock up my till. Don’t want any more larceny.’ She cut me off, and a minute later came out of the front doors. She came over and said, ‘Hello gentlemen, I have something to show you.’ She nodded to John’s car and said, ‘Better inside.’
We squeezed into the back of John’s Mercedes. He told his driver to take a smoke break, and then turned to Madge who was sitting between us and said, ‘OK, Mrs McMichael what have you got for us?’
‘Good news if you can call it that. I know what’s been going on. But the bad news is that I’m afraid your security man Chas is at the bottom of this.’
A sad look crossed John’s face and he shook his head. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Not Chas. He’s a friend.’
‘Sorry,’ said Madge. ‘It has to
be him. He was in the security office with the screens. He must have seen.’
‘Seen what?’ demanded John.
‘I’ll show you.’ Madge took her phone from the pocket of her sweat shirt and pressed a button. On the tiny screen two hooded figures pushed loaded trolleys through the front door. There was no sign of the other security guard.
‘Who else was on security today?’ he asked Madge.
‘Tom. But he was called to the tills where there was a bit of a kerfuffle. Happens a lot. Like yesterday when Chas was in the security room again, and the same two boys left without paying.’
‘Christ,’ said John. ‘Let’s go inside and find out what the hell has been going on.’ So we did.
Before I go any further, this is Chas’s story as told to Madge and me outside when everything had been made clear, and the job was over, before I drove her home. As he told us, there was a tear in his eye.
Chas Hill had been in the army. By coincidence, in the same regiment as John, but later. He’d served two tours in one of those small wars in the Middle East which we’d fought at that time without any idea of the consequences, and come home to a country fit for heroes, to a welcome fit for heroes, with PTSD, and an honourable discharge with a pension that barely covered basics. His army house was repossessed, and he moved his wife and son in with his in-laws in a two up, two down in Brixton Hill. He heard about John on the ex-military grapevine and approached him about a job. John was happy to have him on board, and hired him for security, and over the three years he worked for Coffey Shops he was promoted to deputy head of security. He also became a friend of John and his family where he was often welcomed as a guest. After one year, with a loan from John, he managed to obtain a mortgage on a small house close to the Brixton branch of the chain.
